


Erised Stra Eha

by QuillerQueen



Series: Erised Stra Eha [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/M, Gen, Harry Potter AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-11-27 07:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18191837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillerQueen/pseuds/QuillerQueen
Summary: Many years ago, Regina Mills chose to give up magic and live instead among muggles—until her son's eleventh birthday, when Henry's Hogwarts letter reopened the door into the magical world. But crossing that door stirs up dark memories she's spent a decade trying to bury...





	1. Chapter 1

_Deep breaths._

“You’re lying again,” Henry accuses, shooting her one of those heart-piercing glares she’s been on the receiving end of so often for the past few weeks.

_Inhale, exhale. Repeat._

Regina closes her eyes briefly, then refocuses on the leather-bound tome in the display of Charing Cross Books, entirely oblivious to what the golden lettering on the cover spells out.

“Henry, I promise I’m not. Look—carefully.”

From the corner of her eye she watches her son steal a glance sideways. When did he get so good at being sneaky?

“The guy with the kid?” he mutters, frowning at the very same book now.

Regina nods. The pair don’t seem to have moved, nor are they entering the record store they’ve been ogling for a good five minutes now. That’s suspicious, isn’t it? Then again, she and Henry have been doing the same in front of the bookstore. They’d come from opposite ends of the street, the two pairs of them, and stopped almost at the same second at their respective shop fronts.

They’re so damn close to their destination—the Leaky Cauldron is right there, with its rusty sign and dusty window panes, its quirky owner and diverse assortment of guests. And its chilly yard—the gateway into another world.

Regina just knows Henry’s eyes will light up the moment they enter Diagon Alley. How could they not? And she needs him that way, needs him happy and carefree and wide-eyed with excitement now even more than usual, for reasons that are, quite frankly, selfish. But he’s been so angry lately, ever since she finally plucked up courage to tell him the truth, so furious with Regina for keeping it from him for eleven long years.

_I’ve lived my whole life not knowing who I am, because of you! I mean, I guess I always knew...but I didn’t understand it. You let me feel like I was crazy!_

_I didn’t know_ , she whispered, in tears, because he’d never said anything before, and she thought perhaps he hadn’t discovered his magic yet or even that he’d taken after Daniel and had no magic at all (wishful thinking on her part). And how could she not have known? What kind of mother fails to notice such a thing?

It’s been tough on them, and their relationship has suffered horribly.

So she wants him happy, and grinning, and forgetting for a while about her betrayal and his rightful rage as they set to discover the quintessential street together while Regina introduces Henry to the world of magic—her world, his world—for the very first time.

But she can’t very well do that with a stranger gawking at them, can she?

The little boy with the head of curls waves at her—shit, she’s the one who’s been gawking it seems. Henry waves back, elbowing Regina in the side with rather more gusto than necessary, and she raises a hand in greeting with a forced smile that widens as the child gives them a toothy, dimpled grin. It’s more natural this way, less conspicuous than ignoring such a precious boy would be.

Then the man holding the boy’s hand turns around, and their eyes meet.

Blue eyes smile at Regina, accompanied by a flash of dimples that are the sole family resemblance between father and son, and it stirs something vaguely familiar in Regina’s chest.

All she can muster is an awkward nod.

Those blues shift from her face to the very establishment muggles aren’t supposed to see, only just brushing past the doorway of the pub, and then the man is crouching to whisper something in his son’s ear, making the boy giggle and nod, then wave once more at Regina and Henry before he drags his father further up Charing Cross Road.

“Henry, let’s-” she urges, but Henry, her brave, sulking, so very brave son, is way ahead of her, reaching for the door already.

It’s not too crowded inside, but the clientele is every bit as remarkable as she remembers it from the single time she visited almost two decades ago. The owner hasn’t changed either, although the kindly man with sideburns she remembers is eons removed from the bald, sallow-skinned hunchback that greets them now.

She ushers Henry from the sign warning against the health hazards of exploding lemonade, a house special she would once have loved to try herself, and out into the tiny rectangle of bricked-off yard in the back.

A shiver skitters up her spine—here they are, then.

Slowly, very slowly, she reaches into the deep pocket of her peacoat and grips the wand she hasn’t used, with a single exception, for the past ten years. Long-suppressed magic tingles at her fingertips, raising gooseflesh in its wake. Sparks fly from the wand tip as she flexes her wrist, just like they did the very first time she brandished the wand at Mr Ollivander’s shop.

 _12⅓’’, Hawthorn and dragon heartstring, reasonably springy,_ Mr Ollivander’s voice rings in her ears even today. _Intriguing things, hawthorn wands—exceptionally well-suited to healing and cursework both. Complex and conflicted, like the witches and wizards they tend to favour._

Few times in her life has Regina felt as exposed as she did then, under the wandmaker’s moonlike gaze.

Henry fidgets, positively on pins and needles next to her as she trails the wand tip over the specific sequence of bricks.

“From the trash can, three up and two across,” he whispers reverently.

He gasps when the bricks spring apart, and she can’t fault him for that—her breath, too, hitches as the newly-formed archway beckons them forth into the hustle and bustle that comes with the last days before a new school year.

“Welcome, Henry,” she smiles, almost as giddy as her son, “to Diagon Alley.”

For a moment, he only gapes, wide-eyed and slack-jawed just as she imagined he’d be, beaming at the new sights, sounds, and smells.

“Awesome!”

And he’s off, heading for a flashy storefront Regina doesn’t remember, but then again it’s been eighteen years and a wizarding war since her first and only time here. It’s a joke shop, and a very popular at that, judging by the throngs of fans young and old. Henry manages to coax a promise of a souvenir or two out of her before they leave, and the next moment he’s on the other side of the street with his nose pressed against the glass display of a third-hand bookstore—very Henry, magic or not.

“School supplies first,” she teases, running a hand through his hair, and for the first time since things have gone sour between them, he doesn’t shrink from her touch. “Remember your letter?”

Henry grins, unfolding the yellow parchment bearing the Hogwarts crest. It’s been read ragged, the wax seal not only broken but practically pulverised at this point.

Back in the day, she’d have sold her soul to receive a letter like that—and, on the eve of her eleventh birthday, she had. Cora had enrolled her in all the most prestigious schools at birth out of sheer pride and, probably, because it would give her immense joy to reject a handful of them for the one she’d always favoured for her daughter. There had never been any question of Regina being able to choose for herself—all the open house days Cora had arranged for had been only for show, too, or perhaps to satisfy her own curiosity or confirm her sense of superiority. Either way, Regina hadn’t had a say.

That’s why Henry will (well, it’s part of the reason, anyway).

She steers him towards Madam Malkin’s next, even though he doesn’t stop talking about his soon-to-be wand the whole time he stands on the stool as the ancient owner’s assistants see to the half-dozen customers inside.

“Wait...Mom, how can we afford all this?” he frowns as Regina digs through her pouch in search of the adequate number of galleons, sickles, and knuts. “And what’s the exchange rate?”

“We’re not poor, Henry. You’ve always had everything, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but-”

“My parents were...well, rich. They left you everything.”

“Not you?”

“No, not me,” she smiles even as her stomach performs that treacherous sinking act she’s been training it so hard not to do in this context. One final act of reproach from her mother, to remind Regina just how much of a disgrace she must be for mighty Cora to leave her estate to a half-blood grandchild she’d never cared to meet. “As your guardian, I manage your inheritance until you come of age.”

Henry mulls it over, a deep frown settling on his brow, but she doesn’t want to ruin the magic for him, especially not on his first day.

“I know a place,” she winks gracelessly, “with the world’s best ice cream sundaes.”

That cheers Henry up, and he trots happily away to where magical books await. Flourish and Blotts draws him like a moth to a flame, and while lugging that number of books for the rest of their shopping trip will be most impractical, Regina cannot resist the pull herself. With its shelves stacked high and wares ranging from the size of fingernails to that of paving slabs, it quite predictably enchants their inner nerds. It’s hours before they emerge into the sunlight again, weighted down by schoolbooks and tomes of light reading and dazed by the colourful, glittering displays all over again.

Ollivander’s is a blur. It doesn’t exactly go fast (Though does it ever? It certainly didn’t for her either.), and Henry is incredibly nervous still that no wand will want a wizard so new to the very concept of being one.

Still, it’s Regina who finds herself on the verge of tears.

It’s really happening.

All those years ago, she’d come in here, stepped into the same dingy, narrow shop with precariously balanced rows of thin boxes and the very same Mr Ollivander (though now even more ancient and bright-eyed and with an apprentice to help him), filled with hope for the future and thrilled to have a wand of her own. Cora’d never cared much to uphold the law and keep Regina’s magic in check until the prescribed age—on the contrary, she’d started training her early instead. But this, perhaps for the first time, felt almost like freedom, almost like light when eleven-year-old Regina grasped the erubescent wand and felt warmth trickle up her arm.

Darkness returned soon enough, into Regina’s soul and into the world.

_The darkness has tasted you, and it likes how you taste, dearie. It doesn't mind the bitter. And now that it started the meal it's gonna finish it._

It still turns her stomach, that ominous prediction that has proved quite true. Darkness has tasted her, and for a while it did prevail. Then the magical war ended, a regime of terror fell, and Regina cradled a newborn in aching arms, tears rolling down her cheeks at this miracle she would lay her life down to protect from all evil.

So she ripped magic from her life, and Henry’s. Daniel didn’t much like it, especially when her nightmares only got worse and the day would sometimes see her sweaty and breathless and petrified for minutes. But in the end he understood. When Cora’s Killing Curse hurtled towards him, hitting him square in the chest just as another jet of green sped towards Cora from Regina’s shaking but unfailing wand. In his last moments he understood the price of magic and the bottomless depths it could drag one to.

Forsaking magic was the right choice. Henry grew up happy, healthy, and _good_. Not a shred of evil in that true heart of his.

It was the right choice—until it wasn’t. Because Henry deserves a choice, too. He should decide his path, write his own story (he’s yelled it in her face enough since she told him what he was—not that she hadn’t already known).

And so here he is now, standing in awe as droplets of ink burst forth from the wand he’s gripping— _his_ wand, clearly.

She’s so, so proud of him.

Right now, as he hurls himself into her arms and whispers _thanks, Mom_ into her blouse, his anger is quite forgotten, and all seems right with the world.

* * *

Not everything is as bright, though. 

Florean Fortescue’s ice cream parlour is no more, and neither is the kind, knowledgeable owner. The plaque on the wall of the now-coffeeshop spells out his fate—another victim of the wretched wizarding war.

Henry has questions Regina isn’t sure how to answer. No matter how hard it is for her, how hard it is on him, she can’t possibly send him off to school unaware. It casts a dark shadow upon their outing that doesn’t quite lift by the time they leave Diagon Alley and return to the small muggle B&B they’ll be staying at overnight before Henry boards the Hogwarts Express tomorrow.

He lets himself be tucked in for the first time since the revelation of magic, and her heart aches.

She cannot sleep. It’s not new, her insomnia, and she has a book ready on the nightstand. The light is on in the small common area downstairs, and the well-worn armchairs are blessedly empty, so she curls up in the one directly by the lamp and stares at the open page.

She can’t take anything in. The day’s events keep replaying on loop, catapulting her weeks, years, decades into the past. Her breaths are short, her heart racing within minutes.

_Stop it._

“Apologies, I—Are you all right?”

_Fuck._

She didn’t hear the man approaching over the beating of her heart, and now he’s in the armchair next to her, offering her the glass of water he’d no doubt gone to fetch for himself. Regina takes it, lets the cool liquid trickle down her throat and settle her nerves.

“I’m fine,” she snaps, pushing the glass back into his hands. He hasn’t done anything wrong, but stumbling upon her in a vulnerable state is hard enough to forgive. She’s not some dainty flower waiting for a rescuer after all. And she sets to tell him just that, to make it clear she had this handled in the first place, but as she raises her eyes—

“Oh,” she blinks. “It’s you.”

The man from Charing Cross Road, with the adorable son and, so it seems, impertinent smirk.

“That it is,” he chuckles. “Robin Locksley, at your service.”

She’s not giving this stranger her name.

“I don’t appreciate being barged in on,” she grumbles.

It’s rude, she’s being rude, and he really can’t be faulted for walking in on her in the worst possible moment.

“Ah,” he nods solemnly, but that half-smirk of his remains. “With all due respect, milady, I was here first. I’m quite happy to share the common room though.”

“ _I_ wouldn’t want to disturb _your_ peace and quiet,” she challenges with a raised brow.

Lesser men would catch the implication, the invitation to leave the room to her, the bold if not threatening arch of her brow. Perhaps she’s being ridiculous about this, but all she can focus on is the rising heat in her cheeks, and how on earth has he managed to make her feel this mortified with just a simple gesture and a few perfectly polite phrases? It’s the second time he’s crossed her path and ruined her plans today, and she really needs some alone time, undisturbed by piercing blue eyes and that oddly distracting salt-and-pepper scruff over deep dimples.

“No worries necessary on my account, I assure you,” he says perfectly casually as he settles back into the worn cushion and picks up yesterday’s paper.

Casual or not, the twinkle in his eyes tells a different story—he gets the hint, won’t rise to the taunt.

_Fuck him._

Regina flips her book open, tamping down the rage boiling away under her skin.

She can’t take a single word in.

A half hour later, as she’s storming out and upstairs in a huff, she wonders how anyone can possibly be so irritating without doing and saying a thing (aside from an amused _good night, milady_ ), simply by their smug, cocky, obnoxious presence.

Henry’s peaceful slumber centres her, and as she stares, breathing in and out, at the dark ceiling specked with misshapen flecks of light from the outside, it only sinks in deeper.

Her baby is leaving the nest, and she’s not ready.

* * *

It’s not about her, though. 

This is about Henry, his future, his happiness. Today is supposed to be a joyous day for him as he embarks on this new adventure, discovers for himself a new world, finds a part of himself that’s been denied him before.

He’s been quiet all morning. First he sat glaring at the empty cage of the tawny owl they’d picked for him the day before and set free to hunt at night; then he kept prodding his breakfast listlessly; and stood mutely next to her on the Piccadilly line train headed for King’s Cross Station.

Henry’s not in a talkative mood at all. He’s been like this often lately. Perhaps it’s unrealistic of her to hope anything would change when they’re faced with what’s going to be by far their longest time apart.

Platform 9¾ is teeming with families saying their goodbyes and friends hollering hellos left and right. Her son, meanwhile, is standing alone a few steps removed, staring hard at the red and black locomotive releasing clouds of steam from the chimney.

“Shall we find you a compartment?”

“I can do it.”

Alone. He wants to do it alone, and it shouldn’t be killing her inside. He’s at that age, and he’s going off to boarding school, where a whole new load of independence awaits him. And he’s ready for it, her wonderful son.

If only she were ready, too.

“You’ll come back to say goodbye?” she asks, uncaring of how much like begging that sounds.

Henry nods and heads off, leaving Regina behind as if it were nothing.

_Don’t be dramatic, he’ll be back in a minute._

_And then—Christmas._

God, she can’t think about that right now, can’t face the fact she won’t be seeing him for four months. Four months!

“We meet again, milady.”

“You—here?”

It’s Robin Locksley, complete with accent and half-smirk. For a moment she panics, wonders if she broke the law by neglecting to look over her shoulder before going through the wall, if she betrayed the wizarding community’s existence to an outsider. But he can’t be a muggle if he’s here. A wizard, then.

“And here I thought I was being stalked,” he teases.

Oh _he_ thought he was being stalked, did he now.

“You’re the one with a stealthy manner.” And he stole her solitude from her last night at the B&B, but that’s an accusation much too childish to ever utter.

“I’m quite light on my feet. I meant no offence, milady.”

“You think you’re so charming, don’t you? Calling people milady?”

Why on earth she’s lashing out she doesn’t know herself, but something about his manner makes her stomach oddly flutter, and she can’t remember ever feeling that way, so it’s only natural she should be on the defensive.

“I don’t know your name,” he says simply, though not without an eyebrow lifting in challenge.

“I’m a witch,” she huffs. “That’s more information than I was planning on ever sharing with you.”

“And yet we’ve shared a drink already.”

She grimaces—touche, but awkward.

“A simple thank you would suffice,” he grins, then looks around for some reason. “And your son? First-year, is he?”

“Yes.”

The platform is emptying, and Henry’s not back yet. Will there be enough time for them? Or is he delaying on purpose to avoid a long scene.

“They grow up too fast,” Robin nods, speaking from experience clearly. “He’s going to love it there. Your owl’s going to be busy delivery gushing letters.”

“I doubt it.” Her voice is oddly dry—she could use another glass of water. “Henry takes after me, he can bear a grudge for ages, especially when he’s in the right and I’m in the wrong.” Regina clears her throat—she’s not this pathetic, to pour her heart out to the first stranger along the way. A topic change it is, then. “Your son’s too young for Hogwarts.”

“That he is. Thank goodness I’m not,” Robin chuckles.

“You’re a teacher. What subject?”

“Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“Impressive.”

It is. And it is like a cold fist around her heart. He teaches children how to fight what she was taught to use at Durmstrang. That’s good—if there is to be no more Grindelwalds or Voldemorts, children need to learn as much as possible from their parents’ mistakes. Regina’s shame is well-placed, and she should feel it—at least she’s decent enough to know her past is shameful.

“Not my first choice,” he shrugs, and she refocuses her attention to him. “But both Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures were already taken. Excellent teachers, my colleagues, mind you—the students are lucky to have them.”

Well, that’s something. Maybe Locksley isn’t entirely obnoxious after all.

“Papa, look, I’ve made a friend!” The mop of curls bounces as Robin’s son comes rushing up to them, dragging her own son by the hand. “This is Henry. It’s his first time on the Express!”

“Robin Locksley, at your service.”

“Do I have to call you professor?” Henry asks as they shake hands.

“The school year hasn’t started yet, so Robin will do for now.”

“My name is Roland! Locksley,” the little boy adds, sticking out his arm for Regina to shake.

“Regina,” she smiles back, couldn’t help it if she wanted to. “Mills,” she winks.

The steam engine whistles a warning—five to eleven.

Regina glances at Henry, who bites his lip.

Robin takes Roland by the hand and excuses themselves.

“Pleasure meeting you, Regina.” And then he mouths: “I’ll keep an eye on Henry for you.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, and he can’t possibly hear her in the tumult, but he must catch it anyway by the way he smiles.

She turns to Henry, who’s looking at his feet/

“You have everything? A nice spot on the train?”

He nods.

He’s not talking to her. Not even now, not even—

Regina stumbles as Henry throws his arms around her out of the blue.

Oh thank god, perhaps not all is lost.

“I love you, Henry,” she says softly, holding him close for just one more minute.

“I love you, Mom.”

The sob stays inside, locked away in her chest like Henry’s first day of kindergarten and then the first day of school, but Henry’s smart, he still catches on.

“Don’t,” he warns. “I’ll write all the time, okay? And I’ll be home for Christmas.”

He’s trying to be strong, to be brave for himself and for her. And so she’ll be that for him.

“I’ll be fine, don’t you worry about me. Have a wonderful time at Hogwarts, Henry.”

Regina waves and waves, even runs a bit as the train is gaining speed, until the Hogwarts Express disappears behind a self-produced curtain of steam.

Only then does she let the tears fall.


	2. Chapter 2

The house on 108 Appleby Lane, Horsham, West Sussex, stands empty most of the day.

With Henry away at Hogwarts, Regina has little desire to spend time within its solitary walls, so she’s taken to coming home late. Her work at the Council has benefited greatly from the long hours she’s been putting in; her household, not so much. She’s taken up volunteering at Firefly Farm again, and ventures out into the fields on horseback every other day. The rest of her spare time is spent at her home desk putting pen to paper or quill to parchment, writing letters that end up unsent as often as not.

_Dear Henry_ , they invariably begin—and then, always, a pause to push back the stupid tears that won’t stop prickling even after weeks of the same, to stop herself from writing the words that keep replaying in her mind like a mantra of _I miss you_ s on an endless loop. When she loses the fight, the would-be-letter lands crumpled in the wastebasket—she can’t and won’t burden Henry with tear-stained miserabilia.

Because Henry deserves to enjoy his new life, and by the looks of it, he is enjoying it—very much so, if his letters are any indication.

Thankfully, her son is true to his promise and writes often and at length.

_Hogwarts is so cool! The whole castle is alive, Mom—staircases move, people in paintings move, even the doors aren’t all doors but walls out to play a prank on us. The enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall is incredible, and the food fantastic...though the apple pie is nowhere near as good as yours._

She chuckles at that, and her smile lasts her for the rest of the day.

Daniel would be so proud. Of Henry, for being the wonderful young man he’s becoming, of his curiosity, creativity, and courage—no wonder the Sorting Hat broke a sweat vacillating between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor for their brilliant son. Yes, Daniel would be proud if he could see him now… He’d always believed Henry shouldn’t be kept from magic if he’d been born with it—just as he’d believed Regina shouldn’t repress a huge part of who she was by banishing magic from her life. It had taken a decade for her to reach the same conclusion, for Henry’s sake. Perhaps Daniel would be a little proud of her, too.

He’d be glad of her riding again, she knows he would be. Oh how she’d missed it! The wind in her hair and the rush of blood in her veins, the connection between rider and horse, that majestic, noble creature. It no longer feels like a betrayal of Rocinante, no longer makes her heart bleed for her husband or her father, both gone too soon. A pang of grief at times, certainly, and that ever-lingering sense of _missing them,_ but not guilt as much as a sweet melancholy on most days.

Daddy never got to meet his grandson. Not by choice like Cora—the elder Henry had drawn his last breath before his namesake took his first. Daddy would have spoiled him rotten, would have snuck him hot chocolate in winter and popsicles in summer, and Regina would turn a blind eye. Instead her two Henrys share a name and Regina’s undying love, but no memories of their own.

_Trust me, mija_ , he’d said to her the night after their Hogwarts visit, after Regina’d cried herself dry because her dreams of studying at either of her schools of choice had been dashed by her mother, _you’re the epitome of a Hufflepuff, and I don’t need some old hat to tell me what I already know. Kindness is not weakness, my dear, no matter what your mother says._

Of course he’d never say any of that to Cora’s face, but...his faith in her had meant a lot to Regina. She’d betrayed that faith terribly later, proved herself as corrupted as she’d always feared she’d be, as evil as she’d always feared she innately was at her core. Daddy’s heart must have broken the day Regina’d failed when it mattered most, taking a coward’s way out because doing the right thing had seemed...inconceivable.

She hasn’t told Henry, her brave and brilliant son, what she’d done, who she used to be. How could she face his horror, possibly even repulsion, if he knew? Him, with his heart of a true believer in justice and good?

Henry is a Gryffindor _and_ a Ravenclaw at heart, she doesn’t need some old hat to tell her what she’s always known. Perhaps the Sorting, a ceremony that once had seemed so ingenious and sacred to her, is too restrictive after all. Why should an eleven-year-old have to choose between being smart and being bold?

_I didn’t know what to do, Mom. I want to be both… The Hat said I still could, I’d just have to pick where I’d belong. Robin...well, Professor Locksley now, I guess...used to be a Gryffindor, and Roland says he’ll be one, too. I was gonna choose Gryffindor as well, at least I’d have a friend there. But then I remembered what you’d always say, about values and staying true to yourself instead of following the crowd and all that. Many at the Ravenclaw table had books on table or quills stuck behind their ears. That seemed like my thing, so I just went for it._

Henry never could resist a good story.

No matter how conflicted he’d been about his choice, it had been his to make, and that’s what matters. She makes sure to tell him that repeatedly, opens and closes her letter with the very same. It seems to stick, because his enthusiasm grows from then on.

_Did you know the inventors of Floo Powder (can we get some of that for our house?) and the lunascope (cool!) were both ‘Claws? So was Mr Ollivander!_

Henry goes on to describe his lessons ( _hard but awesome_ ), gushes about the library ( _I can’t wait to be allowed into the Restricted Section_ ), explores the castle grounds and bemoans the fact the Forbidden Forest is, well, forbidden ( _you never mentioned centaurs were real!_ ).

With Halloween around the corner, Regina can’t believe it’s been two months since Henry left for school. She can and she can’t. On the one hand, time’s been dragging on; on the other, she’s survived all those weeks somehow, and that’s something, isn’t it?

_Mom, could you please, please sign this for me? Please? Robin...Professor Locksley...says only third-years and up are allowed trips to Hogsmeade on weekends, but he’ll vouch for me if you allow it, and I could go visit him and Roland at home. Did you know Hogsmeade is the only all-wizarding village in Britain?_

Well, then.

That Robin Locksley again.

Henry’s been dropping mentions of him here and there—him and his adorable son. Come to think of it, almost every letter has contained some mention of the Locksleys, if only a brief one. They seem to be a constant in Henry’s life now in a way Regina, quite frankly, envies. Besides, can the man really be trusted?

_I know you’re probably worrying if you can trust him with me, but Mom, he’s great. He’s a great wizard—did you know he fought in the Battle of Hogwarts? I’d definitely be safe around him. He’s a good dad, too, makes Roland eat his greens and teaches him to be polite and kind and everything. I really think you’d approve if you knew him better. Please, Mom?_

So she’d approve if she knew him better, would she?

Well, perhaps that is the answer.

_Dear_ ~~ _Mr Locksley_~~ ~~_Professor_~~ _Robin,_

_I am contacting you because my son has asked permission to visit Roland and you in Hogsmeade Village._

_It appears Henry has become rather attached to your_ _family_ _son and you. As much as I want for my son to build strong friendships and enjoy all the opportunities he possibly can during his studies and in life, I do not know you well enough to be comfortable with you being such an extensive influence on him. This is not to dispute your qualifications as a teacher or your values as a parent—in fact, I do hope that as a fellow parent you understand my concern._

_If there is anything you believe you can offer to lay my doubts to rest, please do so. As much as our previous interactions might have suggested otherwise, I do not_ ~~ _hate you_~~ _~~despise you~~ ~~find you inexplicably irritating~~_ _wish to refuse my son something he so clearly believes would be to your mutual enjoyment and benefit._

_I await your response before I make a decision on the matter._

_Sincerely,  
_ _Regina Mills_

It’s perhaps a bit too...official in tone, but what more could she do with a man who is practically a stranger to her, and a smug and annoying one at that?

His response comes so quickly he must have scribbled it immediately upon receipt of her letter.

_Dear Regina,_

_thank you for your letter and for your candour._

_You’re quite correct in that I appreciate your concern. Your Henry is a brilliant young man, well-mannered and kind-hearted, clearly raised with a firm yet gentle hand. Truly, I expected no less than to be rightfully questioned. I did, in fact, intend to consult you on the matter myself—but alas, your owl has proved much faster than mine._

_I hope my post as the DADA teacher here at Hogwarts is a decent enough recommendation as to my ability to keep Henry safe from outside dangers (though of course us parents never cease to worry anyway, do we?). As to my character, I’m enclosing a drawing my boy insisted would best serve the purpose (I’m supposed to be a lion, you see—or perhaps you don’t, we’ve never been particularly good artists in our family, except for my dear Marian, but Roland sadly doesn’t seem to have inherited that particular talent from his mother). Far be it from me to doubt my son’s abilities, but truth be told I would not blame you in the slightest if earning your trust took more than artwork._

_Let me extend an invitation, then, to Henry_ and _you. Roland and I would be honoured to have you both over for Halloween, provided you’re able to join us. If not, any other weekend would be fine—please let me know which would suit you best._

_Yours sincerely,  
_ _Robin Locksley_

_P.S.: I shall prepare a room for you to read without disturbances, milady, lest the outlook of another contest for the best armchair should deter you._

He just could not let that one go, could he? Just had to throw that quip in to tease her. The scoundrel.

The rest of the letter, however, is rather...reasonable, she’ll give him that. Especially if he’d really intended to contact her as he claims. Her idea of what he could do to convince her of his reliability was very vague to begin with, but she certainly never would have expected him to come forth with an invitation into his home to prove himself. He must really be fond of Henry—he seems to have good judgment in that at least.

She could see Henry almost two months earlier than she expected to.

She could see for herself whether this Robin Locksley is any good.

She could see Hogwarts again, maybe, and the village her mother had refused to let her see the one time they’d visited the castle—she could explore it with Henry, repeat the wonderful time they had in Diagon Alley, only without the tension.

Is she actually thinking of accepting a smug stranger’s invitation?

_Oh, stop fooling yourself, Regina._

She’s already decided.

* * *

The sun has barely risen when Regina materialises on the tiny, dark platform of Hogsmeade Station and proceeds to catalogue her limb and fingers.

It’s been over a decade since she’d last done this, and she hadn’t exactly had a wealth of practise before either, nor had she been fond of the sensation. Her Apparition skills are rusty at best, but it seems Gold had hammered the rules in enough that Regina’s managed to both hit the exact spot she was aiming at and avoid splinching.

She’s early—very early. She’d rather be early than subject herself to another humiliating faux pas in front of Robin Locksley in case her arrival had gone wrong. No, Regina doesn’t mind being early, at least she can recover a little, take a walk or—

“Good morning, m’lady. I thought I might find you here.”

Of course Robin Locksley would turn up out of the blue to scare the living soul out of her—and why exactly anyway?

“We agreed nine o’clock,” Regina frowns. “It’s barely eight.”

“That we did. However I’d have been impatient to see my boy—I thought perhaps you might be, too.”

“I’m not sure Henry will appreciate my barging in on him this early.”

“You might be underestimating his excitement to see you.”

“Or to explore the only all-wizarding settlement in Britain.”

“An irresistible combination,” he winks—and she can feel the heat creeping into her cheeks.

What is wrong with her? She does _not_ blush, will not blush for this brazen man.

The walk to the village is refreshing. The chilly morning air helps lift the crushing feeling around her chest—a side-effect of Apparition that once tended to catapult her into a state of full-blown panic, and still makes her heart quicken and her belly twist. Robin points out a curiosity in the landscape now and again, adds an anecdote here and there, mostly involving Roland’s antics, but otherwise lets her ruminate until Hogsmeade emerges beyond a curve of the road.

It’s every bit as gorgeous as the Christmas cards she once saw in Diagon Alley. Back then she thought no place could possibly look this picturesque, that it simply couldn’t be real. Her mother had nothing but derision for her when young Regina suggested she’d like to see for herself.

And now here she is, looking at a winter fairytale on the backdrop of imposing mountains: haphazard rows of steeply-pitched roofs with tall, skinny chimneys capped with snow; tiny dormer windows sticking out of granite walls leaning every which way and not a straight line in sight; colourful shop displays lit by brass-etched lanterns. It’s still asleep, drowsy with the first buzz of morning in the air.

“Does it always have snow?”

“We’re above the snow line, so on most days, yes.”

“It’s stunning,” she sighs.

For a moment, staring at the stirring village, she forgets about Robin. It’s only once he clears his throat that she remembers he’s still standing there, letting her take in the sight in peace, and catches him rubbing his neck with a sheepish smile and stubbled cheeks red from the cold.

“You didn’t go to Hogwarts, did you?”

His tone suggests he already knows the answer. He would, of course—the castle may be large, but it only houses a few hundred students, and she and Robin are roughly the same age, meaning they’d have seen each other around at the very least.

“I didn’t, no.”

“What made you choose it for Henry?”

“It’s the best school of magic there is. And I knew he’d like it here. I did when I was his age.”

“Well, it’ll be a pleasure to accompany you on a walk down memory lane.”

“Thank you. I appreciate you doing this, you know. For Henry.”

Why did she add that? Does it look weird that she’d feel the need to stress this is for Henry? Obviously it is, why else would they be here?

“It’s no hardship, Regina. Now, would you care for a spot of breakfast?”

Robin stops in front of the very first in a row of steep-roofed houses, marked with a sign that spells _Granny’s Broomsticks_ in red and green letters, with a smaller _Closed_ one hanging in the door. Before she can point out that insignificant detail, Robin is fumbling with a bunch of keys and letting them both in.

The decor looks like a cross between a pub and a diner—an old inn, perhaps. It’s spotlessly clean—a basic prerequisite for Regina—and instantly cosy. Suddenly she remembers she hasn't eaten, just as her stomach growls.

But Robin doesn’t choose a table, leads her across the room instead into a more secluded corridor and up the stairs.

“We’ve lived above Granny’s,” he explains, “ever since she took over and converted the Three Broomsticks to offer accommodation as well. Roland and I have a whole apartment to ourselves, but she has rooms for rent, too, since the place has become a bit of a tourist trap.”

“Oh, well then I should talk to her. That way I don’t need to put you out—”

“Not a chance. You’re not a tourist; you’re our guest. Besides,” Robin smirks, cocking a brow in amusement, “we’re supposed to be spending time together so that I can convince you I’m not some hideous monster out to morally corrupt your son.”

He's not wrong about that. And he does seem quite happy to be their guide and their host for the weekend—the first wizard Regina struck up a conversation in ages, and a decent man as far as she can tell, with a pinch of humour to boot (though she's reluctant to admit that got some reason).

Why not try to make the best out of it?

“Fine," she nods as he beckons her in, with a smirk and an arch of her own brow because she knows how to tease, too. "May the convincing commence, Professor.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mills' and Locksleys' Halloween in Hogsmeade comes with a gift that causes Regina many a headache—and worse—as she's transported to a past she'd rather forget.
> 
> This chapter includes the following prompts of OQ Prompt Party 2019:  
> #48: One of them falling (any kind of fall), the other helping.  
> #146: Regina’s past haunts her.  
> #163: Regina accidentally hurts Robin with her magic.

Hogsmeade is perfect, simply perfect.

Granted, they’ve barely left the Locksley apartment yet, but Regina is already over the moon.

Henry, who she literally bumped into as Robin was letting her inside his place, hugged her around the middle so tight he squeezed a half-sob, half-giggle out of her. The permission she’d signed had allowed Robin to collect Henry and, while he went to meet Regina, charge the boys with preparing breakfast to the best of their knowledge. Henry made hot cocoa with marshmallows, a treat they’d often share on a lazy weekend. Roland was so generous with the butter and jam that Regina’s toast was practically drowning in it. The sugar overload certainly didn’t stop her from complimenting their culinary skills and smiling around the sticky sweetness so much her cheeks hurt.

It’s a non-issue she’s going to have for the rest of the day, it seems, the perpetual smile on her lips.

The post owls amuse her, tiny and large alike, sitting in neat, colour-coded rows, and she can’t help but tease Robin for living practically next-door to the Post Office and her still beating him to that first written communication between them. He jokingly threatens her with an impending sugar rush as the boys drag them off into Honeydukes, entirely undeterred by the fact they’ve just eaten breakfast.

“Mom, look at that! Are those really edible?” Henry points to a fine sugar-spun quill, and how could he locate it so quickly in the shop overflowing with goods?

The sweets Regina was never allowed as a child wink at her from the shelves, from boxes and jars and barrels filled to the brim. She’d found a way, of course, snuck a treat now and again when away at school and from Cora’s prying eyes. Thus nostalgia overcomes her at the sight of such notorious items as Chocolate Frogs and those treacherous beans that truly taste of everything and anything imaginable. The boys, too, are entirely captivated—children and adult alike—and so it is a while before they leave, after tough negotiating, each with a strict maximum of three carefully selected items. For Regina, it’s Toothflossing Stringmints and Cauldron Cakes for old times’ sake, and Pepper Imps because the idea of breathing fire and smoke appeals to her, and why not indulge for once?

From Honeydukes Roland ushers them straight to Zonko’s, past _boring stuff like hairdressers and greengrocers, R’gina,_ and into _the most funnest place in the world, Henry!_ The joke shop is every bit as popular as one would expect for a place of such repute, and despite their best efforts bot Regina and Robin have considerable trouble keeping their responsible parent faces on.

“Any chance this particular experience can be excluded from my appraisal?” Robin asks, choking back laughter at their sons’ antics with Nose-Biting Teacups as he tries to pry one of the relentless rose-patterned ones from his own face.

“What happens in Zonko’s, stays in Zonko’s,” Regina chuckles, wrestling with a sample of Frog Spawn Soap as tadpoles swarm over her hands much to the boys’ absolute delight.

She feels...light, and happy, more so than she has in...well, ages. So what if they are a little lax on discipline today? There’s no harm in a bit of fun—besides, it is Halloween, so the occasion calls for it, really.

Usually on Halloween, she and Henry would both dress into costume and go trick-and-treating together. This year his wizard’s habit and pointy hat are no longer an assumed pretend-identity, and the wand in Regina’s cloak is no toy. Moreover, it’s not only the two of them this time—Roland and Robin seem quite excited about tonight.

“Papa’s been carving a giant pumpkin for Granny’s stoop,” Roland reports as they leave Scrivenshaft’s with a new fancy quill and ink set for a thrilled Henry. “I haven’t seen it yet because it’s a surprise!”

Roland keeps chattering away as they head home in an ever-dwindling crowd of Hogwarts students filing back to the castle, some waving to their group as Henry, Roland, or Robin wave back. “Granny’s making a big dinner—pumpkin pie and mummy hot dogs and witch finger cookies and lots and lots more. It’ll be grander than the Hogwarts Feast, you’ll see!”

“The Hogwarts Feast?” Regina repeats.

This must be the Halloween Feast Henry’s been raving about in his letters—and it’s tonight, of course it is, because today’s the 31st October. She’s forgotten, or hasn’t realised—either way, she’s spending the evening alone while Henry and the Locksleys leave for this fabulous feast she’s been reading odes about.

Fine, she’s going to be fine. Disappointed, perhaps, to be spending the night alone instead of with her son like she imagined she would, but he’s been looking forward to this for weeks, and she’s certainly not depriving him of the experience. Plus, they have all of tomorrow still—one night apart won’t kill her. So she swallows the drop of sadness in her belly and musters a smile, for his sake.

“I can’t wait to hear all about it—and this time you won’t even have to write it down.”

But Henry’s staring at her with his jaw set, wearing that trademark stubborn look of his as he shakes his head.

“I’m not going to the feast, Mom.”

“Of course you’re going. Robin and Roland will take you, and—”

“Well, milady, the truth is we’ve decided to skip as well this year,” Robin shrugs gamely. “Wouldn’t miss Granny’s culinary mastery for the world.”

She tries to argue, she does, but she’s outnumbered, and her opponents have dimples and puppy eyes and occasionally even a sound argument, and she really wants nothing more than to spend tonight with them, so her protests are rather half-hearted as it is.

“Are you sure?” she asks for the dozenth time as they sit down around Granny Lucas’ large pine table overladen with dishes so savoury her mouth instantly start watering at just the smells wafting from them.

“Mooom,” Henry rolls his eyes dramatically, much to everyone’s amusement.

Granny’s sharp _all right now, tuck in, everybody_ , signals the start of their very own feast. Lids open to reveal an assortment of delicacies, and soon plates are heaped and mouths chewing with gusto. The macabre designs are truly a testament to Granny’s dark humour. Her stern face, however, lights up whenever Henry or Roland praises her work, and she takes in her guests with satisfaction. Aside from their party of four, there’s Granny’s granddaughter Ruby, with red highlights in her dark hair that sparkle in the near-dark; her girlfriend Belle, who manages to both eat and talk ceaselessly about the merits of Ancient Runes, which Regina gathers is optional from the third year and Henry will definitely want to take. Robin teases Belle for never missing a chance to promote her subject to students, even after hours, and Belle deflects amid much laughter.

“Thank you for having me,” Regina says as the dishes are cleared away to be replaced by stacks of cards for Exploding Snap, a set for Gobstones, and a battered chessboard with every single chess piece missing a limb or a chunk of their face.

“Not every day I get to compete against the Hogwarts kitchens and win,” the steel-haired woman rumbles with the hint of a grin as she repositions the crossbow in her lap.

Whether it's to keep in the Halloween spirit or simply a quirk of the eccentric lady, the picture of her like this certainly adds to the atmosphere. Eerie music issues from an enchanted violin propped in the corner overhung with spiderwebs. Light and shadow from Robin’s magnificent dragon-shaped carved pumpkin masterpiece play against the walls.

It's perfect, Halloween incarnate but cosy still (and safe for the boys, thank goodness).

“Thanks, Mom,” Henry mutters as he presses a kiss into Regina’s cheek out of the blue. “I don’t mean just the sweets and jokes and the quill. I missed you, and...this is already the best weekend ever.”

“Oh, Henry,” she sighs, returning the favour until Henry is squirming and blushing.

“Okay, Mom,” he grins. “Now for your gift. I know it’s not Christmas,” he raises his hand at the first sign she might questions this. “But, well, we’ve been through a lot, and this made me think of you, and I want you to have it.”

She’s not going to cry. She’s definitely not crying. Oh, that would be mortifying.

No, she’s going to slip the gift into her pocket and open it when she’s alone—then she’ll cry a little, probably, but not now.

Now it’s time to watch smug Robin Locksley be torn to shreds in a quickfire game of Wizarding Chess by a bright Belle French, to watch Ruby chase after the boys in a quest for the last Fizzing Whizbee, and to end the night covered in soot and foul-smelling liquid but always with that broad smile that makes her cheeks ache and her chest tingle with warmth.

* * *

Robin's eyes sparkle with mischief when they head upstairs, and melt into a pool of deep blue when Roland requests the guest should have the honour of telling tonight bedtime story.

"You don't mind?" she asks. "I'd hate to intrude."

"No, not at all. Please."

Robin's all soft smiles as she sits down on Roland's bunk bed and, with Henry dangling from the upper bunk, tells the boys about the adventures of Babbity Rabbity. She kisses Henry goodnight, catches herself just before doing the same for Roland but strokes his curls instead, suddenly nervous as Robin tucks them both in and follows her out of Roland's bedroom.

"Thank you," they both sputter at the same time.

"I...think I'll go to bed myself, if you don't mind. Enjoy some reading time," she adds with a raised brow and her lips twitching.

Robin laughs, a rumbling thing that makes her nerves flutter away.

"As Milady wishes," he grins. "Sleep well, Regina."

The guest room is small, but it has everything one could need for a comfortable sleepover, plus a cushy, red plush armchair that doesn't quite fit. Robin must have put it in just for her, possibly from his own bedroom.

He's...kind. He's been nothing but incredibly kind to both Henry and her, going above and beyond to make them feel welcome. To feel...cherished, even?

Cherished is too strong a word, and she's being sentimental and foolish. One can't cherish something one doesn't know, not truly. One can't cherish something as deeply flawed as Regina.

An owl hoots in the pitch-dark night as Regina struggles to redirect her thoughts. Her fingers close around Henry’s gift wrapped in golden foil, still in her pocket. She pulls it out and teases from its trappings a small decorative mirror in a gold frame.

Her finger's already left a smudge on the polished glass and as she grabs the corner of the sheets to polish it, she finds herself staring into her own wide eyes.

Her own, but...different.

The soft fan of wrinkles is missing, and the scar cutting across her lip is gone, too. Her hair is longer, curling wildly in the steamy fumes misting up the mirror's surface. The fumes aren't there, not in the tiny room of Granny's Broomsticks, but Regina can smell them still, and the foul stench makes her stomach turn as it always had.

_"Kill it," Gold cackles. "It'll die anyway, dearie. You can choose to let it succumb to poison over hours, or you can end its misery now."_

_The poison stings, burns, mars Regina's throat so she can't say a word. Even if she wanted to, she can't speak the incantation, can't utter the formula to set the Killing Curse in motion. She doesn't want to. Does she? Does she want to end this? The unicorn's misery? Or her own?_

_The dungeons are dark, dank, dreadful. The animal's knees are buckling, its horn vibrating oddly, as if it were trembling with fear, or agony. Regina must kill it. She must. Every student has to go through this, it's a long-standing rite of passage at Durmstrang. Regina's failed before, refused to do it, and Gold had been furious, but not nearly as furious as her dear mother, whose Howler hurled insults at Regina for hours until it went up in flames, its ashes floating to the floor of her bedchamber, where Regina'd been curled up sobbing._

_"Do it, Regina. You stupid girl, raise your wand now! Are you a witch or not? Are you a coward? Are you, Regina?"_

"Regina!"

"No," she sobs, "I can't, please, make it stop..."

"You're all right, you're safe," comes a voice from afar, and it doesn't sound like Gold at all. "Come now, look at me," it coaxes, and Regina whimpers and screws her eyes shut, she can't look, can't face it, can't face herself…

"Hey, it's me, it's Robin. You're in Hogsmeade, remember?"

Hogsmeade?

Hogsmeade. Hogs...meade. Hog-Hogwarts.

"Henry," she chokes out, scrambling blindly to her feet and crashing back down as pain slices through her head. _Wand._ She finds it in her pocket, taking blind aim with whatever curse first crosses her mind, she can't be sure but it clearly hurts because the voice hisses and there is no one hovering over her anymore.

"Careful, please, Regina, easy…" comes that concerned voice again, and Gold's never really cared about her, he can't be trusted, she won't be fooled. "Henry's fine," it tells her, kind and breathless. "Your boy's fine, he's asleep just next door with Roland, yeah?"

She blinks her eyes open at that, but the ones staring back are not golden set in scaly, sickly skin, but instead crystal blue and lined with concern.

"Regina?" Robin whispers, and all she can do is whimper like the pathetic thing she is, because now she remembers, now she can tell memory and present apart, but this does very little to soothe her nerves.

Robin coaxes the wand from her cramped fingers, one by one, ever so gently, wincing as he deposits it on the bedside table behind him.

“Oh god, I’ve hurt you,” she croaks, and sure enough, his sleeve is singed, the patch of skin underneath an angry red. “S-sorry…”

“You’re fine, Regina—and I’m fine, it’s all right, just breathe, yeah?”

She tries to, though even that is proving to be a challenge, and is she having a goddamn panic attack right now? Here, with Henry just behind that wall? With Robin bent over her, his burn untreated—the burn she’s caused? For fucking real?

“It’s nothing,” he smiles, pulling his sleeve down to hide it from her.

“It’s...not...nothing,” she grits as she lets her eyes dart about the room.

Ceiling. Window. Desk lamp. Bookshelf. Door.

“I can hear you...breathing through the pain,” she whispers, listening still, to his heavy breath and her own shallow ones, listening to the rustle of wind in the tree outside the window, and to the whistle of the kettle from the kitchen.

“What sort of tea am I brewing?” Robin asks, and maybe he knows what she’s doing, or else his timing is simply prodigious.

What does she smell?

Belladonna and death… But that’s not right, is it? That’s not real, not anymore.

_Focus, Regina._

“Peppermint,” she grits. So easy, so trivial.

“Would you like some?”

Regina nods, and Robin stands to bring her a mug, thank goodness, now’s her chance to gather herself and whatever shred of dignity, if any, she has left.

By the time he returns, she’s sitting on the bed, drenched in cold sweat and shaking, but the worst is behind her at least.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him as she wraps her hands around the warm mug.

“None of that,” he dismisses. “Are you feeling better? Do you need anything?”

“Oh, just a Time Turner to make it so you’ve never seen me like this,” she scoffs.

“You’ve nothing to fear from me, I promise.”

It’s not fear, exactly, but, well, better not get into that.

“How’s your head feel?” he probes, taking a sip of his own tea.

“Like it’s hit something very solid.”

“Ice pack?” he offers.

Regina shakes her head—a colossal miscalculation, because now instead of throbbing dully it threatens to split.

“Wand,” she hisses, grabbing hers. She doesn’t want him to do it, wants to take care of it herself, not because she doesn’t trust him (does she trust him, so soon?) but because she needs to do this. Not just yet, though, unless she wants to make a fool of herself again. “As soon as I—in a moment.”

Robin nods, hums in understanding—too much understanding and not enough, either or both, maybe.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he says at long last, “but we can.”

“Your arm—let’s talk about that. I’ve hurt you. Can I at least apologise for that?”

“Apology accepted. Perhaps your wand could handle that, too, once it’s done with your head?”

Why would he want her to do it? Maybe he’s not good with healing spells? Which would be unfortunate for a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Is he testing her? Or is he—trusting her? Showing her he thinks no less of her for—well, that unfortunate incident.

She should be offended. Or maybe not. She doesn’t know anymore.

The mirror’s lying on the ground at her feet, untarnished, the first witness to her...whatever the hell that was.

The mirror she’d looked into just a moment before whatever the hell that was started. Not a simple panic attack, no, it was more, started out as something else, something dark, evil...

Robin Locksley is a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

He’s seen enough. Damnit, he’s seen too much, way too much, much too soon.

Slowly, she moves her foot to hide the mirror from sight.

Regina bites her lip, then breathes out a humourless laugh. “You must think me pathetic. I didn’t practise magic for a long time, and even now, living among Muggles, I don’t really. I used to be quite good in my time.”

“Oh I’d wager you are. Else I wouldn’t have asked you to fix my arm for me,” he winks. Present tense. The man is an idiot. A wonderfully kind idiot, to be sure, but reckless nonetheless. Definitely a Gryffindor in his day.

So be it. She no longer sees stars, so she lifts her wand and sends a handy little spell on its way, feeling the swelling go down at once. Robin’s sleeve rolls up neatly at her wand tip, and his angry skin cools off—visibly, obviously, as he lets out a long sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Regina,” he says, as if it hadn’t also been her to cause the issue in the first place.

Maybe it wasn’t the mirror. Maybe it was just her. She’s been...stressed, a lot, in the past few months.

“I’m not usually like this,” she groans. “I—it’s the first panic attack I’ve had in years.”

“I don’t think any less of you for it. And neither should you.”

Her mind goes blank at that but her eyes fill up again, with stupid tears of relief and gratitude and— _shit_ —affection she absolutely refuses to let out.

“My private reading nook is seeing company again,” she quips instead.

“Ah, indeed so,” he smirks knowingly, and this time somehow it’s not obnoxious but rather endearing. “Would milady prefer I leave?”

“I don’t feel much like reading, or sleeping,” she shrugs. “I’d like to finish my tea. If it comes with conversation, well, I suppose I won’t mind too much.”

“I see. Any preferred topic?”

“You—and Roland,” she adds quickly. “And Hogwarts. If you don’t mind, that is.”

He doesn’t, and so instead of a night of nightmares, Regina finds refuge in Robin’s stories of magical castles, pristine landscapes, and Roland’s shenanigans.

* * *

Next morning, with the lack of sleep curled in a tight little ball and settled dull and heavy behind her eyes, Regina trudges down the winding path to the famous Shrieking Shack. Henry and Roland, adventurers to the core, are ahead by leaps and bounds, with Robin trailing close behind them. Regina keeps her distance under the pretext of admiring the landscape—a passable excuse, with all that snow-capped beauty, but the truth is she’s too distraught to appreciate it today.

The mirror, slipped into her coat’s pocket swaddled in a handkerchief and protective magic (protecting it, or from it?), weighs her down. It throws her off balance with every step. It unsettles her.

She tried to smash it. After Robin—equally sleep-deprived because of her, not that he’s had a word of complaint—left to wake the boys, a strange impulse stirred within her. It rose like a tidal wave, and next thing she knew her foot was landing heavy on shiny glass, leaving behind—

Not a single crack.

A protective spell of some sort, perhaps.

Or it could be something more sinister, and far more dangerous—something dark, something suffocating, something destructive.

Once upon a time, she thought herself a good enough witch to tell the difference. A good enough person, even.

That girl has lived much, and now she’s gone.

There’s only Regina. Regina, at war with magic again, and with herself. Regina, missing out on precious time with her son because she can’t handle something as mundane as mirrors or memories.

No. Absolutely not. She is not giving up on Henry, no matter how much her demons clamour for attention. She’s going to catch up with the rest of the group right now, fast, before they disappear in the most haunted (not really, but the legend lives on beyond the well-known truth) mansion in Great Britain. She’s going to march in there and leave her own ghosts outside alone to dwell on past, present, and future.

* * *

By noon, Regina is frustrated.

Henry asked to borrow the mirror (he and Roland want to make light reflect off it in one of the dingy, dusty rooms of the dilapidating house solely held together by magic), and Regina lied, watched Henry’s face fall, and felt worry and guilt colliding, setting off on impact that dull and heavy sensation behind her eyes that is now a raging headache.

A lonely chair leg, possibly once attached to the rickety chair in the foyer, is the sole witness to her tantrum—and the cursed mirror’s resistance to blunt force trauma.

* * *

By afternoon, she’s terrified.

The wand is hot in her sweaty grip, overheating with magic coursing through it for the past hour she’s spent locked away in Robin’s guest bedroom under the guise of packing.

Her detector spells have uncovered nothing. Her disarming spells have yielded no result. Her attacks, growing more violent with each failure, have done no harm at all to the stubborn, malicious object staring at her from the singed desk.

Tears are rolling down her cheeks, of anger and helplessness and, definitely, desperation.

Magic was supposed to come easy. It had before. Too easy, in fact...and she’d been too proud, too arrogant in thinking she could handle it, that she could take the techniques and separate them from the purpose they’d been taught her for, that she could use it for good.

Perhaps she should never have embraced it again.

Stupid little object! So pretty, so precious as a gift from the heart! Look at it gleaming in the last rays of the setting sun, blinding her, mocking her!

_“Too little, too late, dearie. What did you think your little pen pal would accomplish? It’ll take more than two measly teenagers wasting invisible ink to vanquish the Dark Lord, if at all he can be vanquished.”_

_Regina stands in the headmaster’s chilly office, shaking not from cold but from shame. She missed her moment. She lost—what? Heart? Her resolve? Her conviction? She lost it when it mattered the most. She failed her British contact, failed the resistance, failed herself. She hesitated at the crucial moment, and now Gold is right—in the end she’s done too little, and now it is too late._

_Regina has blood on her hands. She may not have killed anyone herself, may not have unleashed speeding death from the tip of her wand, but she did nothing to stop it either, even though she could have. She need only have spoken out._

_The rose shivers in its bell jar on Gold’s desk as the man aims his wand at Regina._

_“The name, Regina.”_

_She doesn’t know it. They’d taken precautions at least, she and her anonymous penpal. She couldn’t betray them even if she wanted to. She could just tell Gold the truth—that they’d only ever known each other by codenames—and hope he’ll take her word for it. He might, if she’s lucky._

_She’s taking too long. He’s going to do it—he’s going to breach her mind like he’s done so many times before, and extract whatever knowledge, whatever secret he wants to. Her head hurts already, screams bloody murder at Regina, and might just split the moment Gold breaks in._

_The spell washes over her, vile and vicious and sure because she’s never been able to resist it before—and something in her heart, in her soul, fights back._

_She may be weak, and she may even be evil at her core, but she can at least do this one good thing, one empty little act of honour, of defiance against the regime she’s proven herself incapable and unworthy of fighting._

_“No,” she hears herself say, clearly, confidently, unshakably, as her mind closes itself to the imp whose sneer hides a simmering rage._

_“No?” he says in an oily voice. “Very well, we shall see. Crucio!”_

An ear-splitting scream echoes through her dream-memory, a door bangs open, and then there are hands on her, hands she can’t shake off because she’s petrified from pain. A voice murmurs something—a voice she knows, a spell she vaguely recalls, and relief kicks in almost immediately. The burn stays, radiating white-hot to the last of her limbs, but she can move now—she can cling to those hands now, why she doesn’t know, but they’re not Gold’s hands and this is not Gold’s office and she’s not a seventeen-year-old trapped in darkness anymore.

“You’re back,” Robin whispers, and yes, yes she is, back in Hogsmeade, back in the present, where gentle hands caress her tear-stained cheek and whisper reassurances into her ear.

“I’m—fine,” she stammers, and all he has to say in return is _that you are, Regina_ as light fingers brush sweat-slicked hair from her face.

Slowly, the ache ebbs away, leaving her bone-tired on Robin Locksley’s floor.

In the absolute quiet, Regina hears, or thinks she hears, the scrape of chairs as Henry and Roland sit down to dinner downstairs. They should join them. Neither moves—Regina, because she doesn’t quite trust herself to just yet; Robin, well, apparently because he’s too busy running his hands up and down her arms in soothing passes.

“Your forehead,” she mutters. “It’s bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

Oh, this sounds familiar. Shit, she’s a disaster, again. _Shit._

“Defensive spell,” Robin adds, as if that made any difference. “Caught me off guard. Some Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher I am.”

“Defensive spells aren’t exactly dark stuff.”

“What is?” His eyes bore right into hers, so very blue, though there are grey clouds gathering as concern fills his voice. “What is it you’re fighting, Regina? What’s been hurting you?”

_Me. My past. Mistakes I can never make right._

Fuck it, this is the third time during their short acquaintance that he’s witnessed her frazzled nerves at work, and he’s never once offered judgement, never once seemed afraid of her—for her, yes, but not of her (though perhaps he should be, or he could end up with much worse than a small burn). Thrice, and not once has he been in a rush to distance himself from her.

And he _is_ a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

“Henry gave that to me last night,” Regina tells him, jutting her chin in the mirror’s direction. “I was just looking into it when…”

Robin regards it for a moment, then retrieves his wand from the back pocket of his cargo pants. Whatever he tries with the mirror yields nothing whatsoever, so he clearly deems it safe to pick up. Regina watches with bated breath as he examines it, but the second he tries to look into the glass, her arm takes on a life of its own and shoots for his, fingers circling around his wrist to stop him from such foolishness.

Robin doesn’t struggle, doesn’t seem offended in the least, instead smiles softly when their eyes meet.

Her fingers uncurl, and she watches him lift it once again and gaze into it hard.

Nothing happens.

“What do you see?” she whispers.

“Myself.”

“Yourself...as you are now?”

Robin nods, his head cocked in question.

“I saw myself, too...but younger. And then—I don’t know. A memory, I think, but more?”

She aches again—this time not from physical torture but a different kind of torment, like a steely stormcloud enveloping her heart. She may not be eleven and dreading darkness, or fourteen and hounded by it like a shadow one can’t banish, or seventeen and devoured by the poison her dear mother and twisted teacher have been feeding her—she may not be that girl anymore, but that cloud descending on her is painfully familiar. It sears and it stings, all the way to her eyes, and she just wants to—she wants to—

What exactly?

To flee? To fight? To confess her sins?

To stop crying, that’s what she wants. To stop coming undone every time she’s faced with a memory. To stop running and face her fears, like she should have done a long time ago.

Robin is watching her, thoughtful and concerned under that furrowed brow of his, opens his mouth when she returns his look, then closes it again. He seems torn, at a loss for words—a rare feat for him, that smug and cocky stranger from Charing Cross Road. A grin tugs at her lips—they’ve come quite a way, haven’t they?

There’s also still quite a way to go.

“I want to know,” she says simply. “I must. Of course, Horsham's library doesn't exactly provide much in terms of magical resources."

"Hogwarts has a rather spectacular library."

"Not available to the public though."

"Well then it's a good thing I happen to be a teacher."

Regina raises an eyebrow at him, her smirk hardly disguising the grateful smile tugging at her lips.

"Isn't that an abuse of power, Professor?"

"Ah,” he chuckles, “but what use is power if not to aid a good cause? Besides, no harm in helping out a friend, yeah?"

So they're friends now?

She can't say she minds...on the contrary.

_...no harm in helping out a friend, yeah?_

She only hopes she doesn't end up proving him wrong.


End file.
